The Red Tower
by Sookie Starchild
Summary: Anders, Nathaniel and Lyna Mahariel discover why architecture should be seen and not heard.
1. Chapter 1

Night was falling. The stars over Fereldan burned too cold and too distant, and the moon that peeked through the hazy chalk blue sky was too slim. An icy wind numbed the faces of the Grey Wardens as they travelled along empty roads that took them home to Amaranthine. Frost had hardened the earth so that every footfall landed with an echoing stomp. The breath of the sturdy white horse clouded the air like fog, and the armour of the knight captain clattered like a set of heavy chimes. A wagon rattled behind them, and where once supplies had rested, now lay a shivering form swaddled in blankets.

"How are you fairing back here, Sigrun?" Lyna Mahariel, Commander of the Grey, asked of her injured friend. She walked alongside the wagon, her voice muffled by the scarf she had wrapped around her head so that only her eyes were left to the elements.

"It's not very painful. I think the cold is helping." The dwarf replied with her usual lightness, though her teeth chattered and the skin beneath her eyes was turning blue. Sigrun had a certain nonchalance about her own health, given that she had spent her happiest years pretending to be dead. But even her best effort to keep in good spirits could not conceal the fact that she was in a very bad way.

Her right shoulder had been nastily wounded during an ambush the night before. Bandits had attacked the camp boldly, perhaps trying to find some kind of glory in slaying wardens. The fight had been brutally quick, and for all their brilliant schemes the bandits had proven unskilled. But they had scored two good blows - the first was a torch that fell against the soft-wrapped packages of food and medicine packages that were supposed to last the five travellers for another two days. The second was the axe that had nearly cleaved through Sigrun's bones. Anders had done what he could in the way of healing, but the injuries required a more seasoned hand.

"Tell that weak-hearted mage up there to quit fretting," Sigrun smiled weakly, "He's worse than a dwarven grandmother."

Mahariel chuckled as happily as she could and returned to where Captain Garevel led the horse and wagon, and Nathaniel Howe and Anders trod solemnly nearby. The three of them looked like pallbearers at a funeral, no doubt convinced that only the worst was possible.

"How is she?" Garevel asked softly.

"Not well. I don't think she'll make it through the night without further aid." Mahariel answered, relieved that the howl of the wind was so loud. Her voice would not carry to the back of the wagon.

"I could cast another healing spell," Anders offered with a tremble of concern, "I can't promise it'll last past morning. But it would buy more time."

The mage was bundled in the winter robes of Tevinter. The same thick grey fur that rested on his shoulders in a hooded cloak also lined his boots and gloves. An ornate staff was strapped to his back, a satchel of lyrium potions slung over one shoulder. The playful smile that usually curled his lips had been replaced with a thin, colourless line. His gold-brown eyes were narrow with worry.

"We can press on to the farmlands," Garavel suggested, "Make camp there, or perhaps find a house that will take us. Anders can cast his charm then, and we might be able to get our hands on some clean bandages…"

"Nate, are there any towns or settlements around here?" Mahariel asked, weighing her options.

"I don't recall any towns, but things may have changed while I was in the Free Marches," Nathaniel shook his head, "The farms in this region are usually abandoned in the winter. The families move on to Highever or Denerim until spring."

Mahariel considered the options. They had precious little in the way of supplies, which would have been less troubling if they were all in good health. Or if the cold hadn't killed everything that couldn't travel north. The roads forked soon, one path was the long trail to Amaranthine, the other the shorter route to Highever.

"Heal her as much as you can. Even if it just lessens the pain in her mind." She turned to Anders, and he nodded and went about his task. A twinkle of blue-white light filled the darkening sky like the burst of a firework, but it lingered for awhile above the wagon.

"What's to be done?" Garavel asked.

"Take the horse. Ride with Sigrun and two flasks of water to Highever. Go as fast as you can and don't spare the animal. We'll continue on to Vigil's Keep. The food will last longer if it's just the three of us, and we'll travel faster without the wagon. Send word to Varel when you arrive at Highever." Mahariel instructed, her eyes grim, her voice tense and sharp.

"Are you sure I should go?" Garavel frowned, "Wouldn't the mage be better suited to it? To heal her on the journey should she need it…"

"No. Anders is doing all he can for her now, and he's not as capable a rider as you."

There was no saddle for the horse, so Garevel wound his hands into its blond mane. Sigrun was placed snugly between his chest and the base of the horse's neck. Wrapped among the blankets, so that his warm little body pressed against Sigrun's and his sandpaper tongue licked up at her face, was Ser Pounce-a-lot. The cat purred softly to comfort his ailing companion.

"See you at the Keep…" Sigrun murmured to her fellow Wardens, as the Knight Commander spurred the horse forward.

They watched as Garavel rode further and further down the road to Highever, until he was no more than a speck in the distance, and then they picked up all the food they could carry and started down the other road. For a long while, none of them spoke. The night darkened and the wind grew harsher. Clouds swirled above them, hiding the starlight and choking the slender moon.

"Maker's balls, it's going to snow on us!" Anders groaned, and his voice bounced off the freezing air like an echo. The wind rustled the fur of his hood, and the tip of his nose was so cold he thought it might fall off.

"At least a bit of snow would warm things up," Nathaniel Howe answered, shielding his grey eyes from the wind with his arm. His armour was made of supple leather, lined with sheepskin dyed black. His gloves were heavy velvet, so that he might draw his bow as needed, but they didn't offer as much warmth as he would like.

"You know what, though?" Anders replied, "I think I'd rather be more-cold and dry than less-cold and wet, with countless miles of blizzard to walk through. But that's just me."

"That's because you're wearing that silly hood." Mahariel answered, shouting to be heard through her scarf and above the howling winds.

They walked through the hills until the night became too dark to see through, and they had no choice but to make camp. The snow had made good on its threat by then, falling in tiny white flakes that stuck to everything they landed on. Including the inside of Anders's hood, where the wind had blown them to land around his face and the back of his neck. They melted into freezing water that trickled down his skin, and caused him to grumble colourful profanities under his breath.

The campsite they chose was beneath a thicket of trees just off the main road. They swept the ground with branches, and Anders tiredly lit a fire by magic. It flickered in a sphere that hovered just above the ground. Sometimes the flame licked out towards the sky, but for the most part it was obedient.

"You're getting better at that." Mahariel noted, sitting on a large stone at the base of a tree.

"Plenty of practice lately," Anders shrugged, "Seems like we're always making camp in the middle of nowhere."

The orb of flame beat against the wind that slipped through the tree trunks, and fought the spell with a sudden gust. The orange light danced in frantic tendrils over the corners of the wilderness, and with a dying triumph it fell to the ground. Defeated by the weather, the enchanted flame splashed like spilled wine before completely snuffing out. Darkness and the smell of burning dirt filled the camp.

More snow fell.

"Oh. Well. Shit." Anders grumbled.

Mahariel burst into laughter and reached a hand over to pat him on the shoulder.

"It was really pretty just before it kicked out." She said as sympathetically as she could.

"It's all this wind," Anders explained with a stony expression, "It bungles everything up."

"Shall I build a real fire?" Nathaniel asked with a smirk, trying to keep his own laughter contained.

"What do you mean by that? A _real_ fire?" The mage demanded.

"You know, one that works," Nathaniel shrugged, "Made of kindling and logs and things."

"Mine worked! It was working terrifically until the stupid bloody wind got it!"

"I'll think you'll find that the wind won't get mine."

Before the argument could continue, a sound broke through the darkness. It rose above the shrieking wind and came from the western hills. It was a cry that rang with primeval purpose, chilling the spines of the winter travellers. It started low and rose and rose until it seemed to shake the trees and pierce the sky.

The long howl of a mad dog.

"Wolves?" Anders asked sharply, searching for a glimpse of the Commander's face in the darkness.

"Not like any I've heard," Mahariel said, "More like a mabari, if it were possible."

Growing up in the wilds of the Brecilian Forests, she had long become familiar with the sounds of wolves. She had heard them many times. The lonesome howl of a wolf trying to relocate the members of its pack, the high eager howl of a pup, the coarse and bitter call to arms when an enemy was near. The cry that they had heard was like none of those calls. It was vengeful. Searching. Hungry.

"Perhaps a feral one, or worse yet a…" Before Nathaniel could finish the thought, a glimmer in the distance caught his eye.

A square of amber light flashed suddenly in the distance. Beside it, a second square lit up, and then a third. The light travelled upward, filling square after square until the final row sat in the middle of the sky. They were windows in a tower, looming over the hillside like a beacon. Snow floated down behind it, a sparse white curtain that let the silhouette of its strange architecture stand out against night.

"I thought you said there was nothing in these parts?" Mahariel asked Nathaniel, in the incredulous silence which fell between them all. Nothing of the wilderness had implied that a settlement would be nearby. It made her uneasy.

"There isn't," He answered, "I mean, there's not supposed to be. There can't be - it would take twenty years to build a tower that tall."

"And yet there it stands. Looks like you were wrong about something, Nathaniel. Again." Anders said smugly, standing up and flinging his satchel over his shoulder. He held his mage's staff like a walking stick and set out to leave the campsite behind.

"What are you doing?" Mahariel asked, snapping back to her senses.

"Heading over there, obviously. I'm not staying out here to get snowed on and eaten by wild dogs and have my fire-making skills continually insulted by my alleged friends. Besides, a tower like that'll have a contingent of guards. Maybe they can ride to catch Garavel and offer aid to Sigrun." He strode confidently towards the road, knowing that even if they debated the issue for a few minutes, eventually Mahariel would catch up with him. And Nathaniel would follow Mahariel.

"Should we go after him?" Nathaniel asked. A story he had heard long ago was sitting on the edge of his memory, but he ignored it. If his foolishness had cost Sigrun precious hours, he would never forgive himself.

"I suppose we must." Mahariel nodded, gathering her gear and their pack of rations.

The fresh snow crunched beneath their boots as they caught up to Anders, who climbed the hill hastily and without looking back. As they drew closer to the mysterious tower, the strange wild howl filled up the night once more.


	2. Chapter 2

The tower turned out to be a jagged but sturdy cylinder of red stone that stuck up from the ground like a hurlock's tooth. At its base were small, square stone houses, with thatched roofs and gated fences. They sat silently in the crisp stillness of the falling snow, almost like theatre patrons waiting for a show to begin. Their windows did not glow with candlelight and their chimneys did not smoke. No voices carried down the streets of the little village, no taverns roared with brawls or songs. The only place with any life in it seemed to be the tower itself.

"I don't like this place." Mahariel said quietly, as they walked towards the great structure. Silence was a sign of danger to her, held over from her days as a hunter. Shemlen were animals like all others, and when they abandoned a place it was a sign of something. Sickness or danger or death. Perhaps the howling had sent them inside, or perhaps they had gathered within the tower. Whatever the reason, the emptiness of the roads chilled her more than the wind ever could.

"It seems familiar to me, somehow," Nathaniel shook his head, "Perhaps I _have_ been here before…"

"Don't beat yourself up about it," Anders replied, "I can't remember most of the places I've been to. Probably because I was only there for half a day before the Templars came."

"You two go on ahead to the tower," Mahariel ordered, "I want to have a look around."

"What for?" Nathaniel asked.

"I'm not sure." She shook her head and scanned the falling snow and narrow streets for signs of an answer.

"Um…" Anders said carefully, "You want to stay out here? With the creepy mysterious howling and the disgusting weather?"

"Yes."

"Well. Suit yourself, I suppose."

"I'll come with you." Nathaniel offered, adjusting the quiver on his back.

"No need. I'll catch up with you soon. Just…" She hesitated. She knew the order she wanted to give, but she didn't know why she wanted to give it, "Stick together until I get there. No matter what."

"Aw!" Anders whined, "No! If there's a beautiful young maiden who wants to give herself freely to my unyielding prowess, I'm not going to refuse her just because Nate wants to brood by the fireplace! And he's certainly _not_ invited to come along!"

"Well, since there is rarely any danger of a beautiful young maiden asking you for anything, I think we should be fine." Nathaniel smiled tightly and nodded at the street they would take.

"You're being really mean to me tonight." Anders noted petulantly, before they headed off towards the tower.

In the solitude and the pale winter night, Mahariel walked among the houses. There was no one. She tried to open one of the doors, and found that it had been firmly boarded up from the inside. No matter how she pushed against it with the weight of her shoulder, it would not budge. She went over to one of the windows instead. It was a thick-paned glass with a leaded design of diamonds carefully laid into the framework. The surface was smeared with dust and dirt, so she wiped it down with the palm of her leather-gloved hand. Even still, peering through the window showed her nothing. The darkness inside was too complete.

The door to the tower was wide enough for two qunari to stand comfortably side by side. It was also tall enough to accommodate them if they decided to enter by having one ride on the other's shoulders. A deeper red than the stone around it, it was made of some heavy dark wood that likely hailed from Antiva. In the center of the door was a large knocker, a heavy iron circle with strange and unfamiliar symbols carved on it. Neither Nathaniel nor Anders recognized the markings, though they did not admit as much to one another. The foot of the door was marked with deep scratches that had peeled away the finish and dug through to the splintering heart of the wood beneath. Some of the scratches looked decades old. Some looked fresh.

There were no voices or sounds from within to indicate that the townspeople had gathered there. Apart from the fact that the windows had been lit so methodically, there was no evidence of any inhabitants at all. It was almost eerily devoid of vitality.

"Should we just knock?" Anders asked, staring nervously at the scratched wood.

"If we want to go inside." Nathaniel replied.

The snow fell between them. The wind whistled and lifted the handle of the knocker up and down slightly. It tapped the door, as if asking to be lifted.

"Alright. I guess _I'll _knock." Anders said, but his hands stayed where they were.

"I'm not going to stop you."

They stood in the falling snow for another silent moment.

"I'm scared!" Anders confessed in a whisper.

"Oh, by Andraste…" Nathaniel muttered. He grabbed the knocker and pounded loudly, almost challengingly, on the door. The hollow sound echoed within the main chamber of the tower. It lingered in the streets. Absently, he wondered if Mahariel had heard the banging from the village.

"Why? Why did you do that?"

The door opened slowly, gliding along the stone floor of the main chamber. It was heavy, but it neither creaked nor buckled as it was pulled. Warmth and light poured into the air, smelling of warm spices and sweet wine. An old, weathered hand held the door steady, and a face soon followed it.

He was an ancient looking man. His skin was like paper that had been folded a thousand times and smoothed over bone and flesh, and his face was gaunt and hollow. The eyes that peered at the two Wardens were yellowed and dry. The obviously expensive clothing he wore looked to be of Orlesian tailoring, but extremely old-fashioned. The trace embroidery and elegantly subtle patterns of his jacket had gone out of style decades ago, replaced by more ostentatious designs, and louder colours. He smiled a wide, toothy smile at them.

"Travellers. At last more travellers." His voice cracked like the spine of a book, and he ushered them inside with his narrow, bony hands.

The warmth, the light, the promise of food was intoxicating. Anders stepped over the threshold, and Nathaniel soon followed. The door closed behind them without a sound.

The inside of the tower was beautiful and ornate. Long red tapestries, containing scenes of wondrous, exotic landscapes unlike anything in Fereldan lined the walls. The floor was made of some fashion of golden stone, polished to mirror shine. Braziers of coals hung from the ceiling, holding the fires that lit the tower like a beacon. Cushions of fine red silk were thrown on low couches and chairs. An immense, winding staircase led upwards and out of the main room. Ruby tiles formed strange, mosaic patterns on the tallest wall. It was a room for parties, for dancing, and for reclaiming social status time and time again.

"We are Grey Wardens from Vigil's Keep," Nathaniel announced to the old man, "One of our order has been injured. We sent her on horseback to Highever, but we fear she will not make the journey. Do you have any aid to offer?"

"Aid? What aid would you want of me?" The old man seemed perplexed.

"Have you any medicine? Are there any healers in this village?" Nathaniel asked, "Even a spare horse, if it has good speed."

"No people will be found here. No horses. No medicine. Only myself," The old man shook his head and shuffled deeper into the room, "Come. I can offer you some food, though it is hardly a feast. And drink… ah, the finest of drink. It is old, as I am old. But time suits wine in a way that it does not suit men."

"You're all alone? You lit these fires yourself?" Anders asked, counting the braziers and the windows, remembering how quickly the tower had begun to glow.

"I am the only soul that lives in this place."

The dining room was as lavish as the main hall. The table could seat twenty, and was covered in a heavy damask cloth. Lit candelabras sat upon it in four places. The chairs were carved of the same deep red wood that the front door was made of, and they were cushioned in the sleek red silk that seemed to cover all of the things a guest would be inclined to touch in the tower. Portraits lined the walls. There was a resemblance amongst the subjects; members of one family, or a certain type of breeding.

Set upon one end of the table was a loaf of bread, a piece of cheese and a bottle of wine.

"Sit, honoured guests! Sit!" The old man said proudly, with a frail flourish of his arm, "I shall return with more glasses. Help yourselves to as much food as you need." He disappeared through a small, almost unnoticeable servant's door, his exit surprisingly swift and abrupt. It closed quietly behind him.

"Strange old bastard, isn't he?" Anders said, pulling a chair up to the table. Nathaniel stayed standing, and looked down at him with a critical eye.

"Perhaps we should wait." He suggested.

"Why? Lyna won't mind, it's not like she's missing out on much. And the old fellow said we could start without him." Anders broke off a piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth. He did not keel over or sputter, or widen his eyes in shock, or give any appearance of having been poisoned.

Reluctantly, Nathaniel sat across from him at the table. He did not touch the food.

The old man returned with two crystal goblets in his hands. He seemed pleased to have company, as he sat down and poured the wine. One glass for Anders, one glass for Nathaniel, and one glass for himself. He talked of the wine for awhile, its vintage and finer qualities. He drank it carefully, savouring the flavour and bouquet. The conversation was polite, and almost merry before it was shattered by the howl.

The same madness, the same hunger. It was longer, clearer and closer than it had been in the campsite by the road. It rang throughout the tower, echoing off the high walls and filling every space, ringing against every trinket, striking through every luxurious fabric. The old man's face fell with terror, his eyes wide and haunted. His hand shook against the glass of wine.

"You… say you are Grey Wardens?" He asked hoarsely, "That is a vocation… stronger… than a knight? Stronger than a mercenary? Stronger than a templar?"

Mahariel made her way further into the village. Most of the doors had been like the first, bolted or boarded from within. The few she had found that could be opened revealed almost nothing to her. The houses were filled with simple pieces of furniture, small rooms and little decoration. There was no one inside.

During her time with the Dalish, Mahariel had lived but once in a place where the Veil was thin. She had been a child of only six or seven, and her memories of that time were vague. But the forest had seemed taller to her than it had ever been before. The trees loomed, and the shadows held untold secrets. Once, while trying to find Paivel to see if they could get a piece of candy from him, she and Fenarel had seen the trees walk. The Sylvans. She would see them again, many times, but not until she had grown and begun to walk the world as a member of the Grey. Still, she would never forget that feeling of dread as she and her small friend stopped dead in their tracks and watched the forest get up and move. As if the logic of the world had flipped itself, neither of them had dared to even breathe, and the once-still trees had seemed to live and walk in their stead. It had been the first time that she had looked into the unknown, seen the emptiness there and feared it. There was something - beyond her grasp, beyond the knowledge of those who knew everything - that could snatch her and Fenarel up and take them from the forest. Take them to a place they could never return from, where the grass was not green, where the sun would not shine. The void, the abyss, the place that the ghosts of ancestors dwelled. When the enchantment broke, she had grabbed Fenarel by the hand, and they had run as fast as they could back to the safe borders of camp.

They had sworn to keep it all a secret. There were some fears even children did not speak of.

She hadn't thought of that day in a long time. But standing in the village of the red tower, the memory came back, unbidden.

At the edge of the houses, on the opposite side of the village to the one Mahariel and her companions had entered by, a chantry waited. It was a small, squat chapel with a roof built to two gables. Stained glass windows shimmered despite the darkness, as if starlight was twinkling behind them. An iron fence squared off the yard around it; there was no gate, only a gap that led down the path to the steps. Instinctively, before she even laid her hands on them, she knew the doors would open.

They did.

The starlight that fell behind the windows was snow, fluttering down through a hole in the roof. It landed in a circle around a statue of Andraste, dusting her shoulders and righteously uplifted head. The wind blew in in a frantic gust, and brought with it the faint call of the howl. Mahariel ignored it. It sounded distant and irrelevant next to the clamour that was stirred up within the chantry itself. Something hung from the ceiling in bundles that clattered against the walls, and one another, with a hollow sound like wooden beads. It was difficult, with no light in the place, to make out what they were.

Mahariel went towards them, and took one in her hand. They were different lengths and shapes, but all made of the same material. It was smooth and pale, and she gasped sharply and let the object fall back. It rattled against the bundle of others, and she looked at the room with fresh eyes. Trying to see through the shadows, using the white of the snow to make out the shapes.

Bones. Hundreds and hundreds of bones and skulls, tied up and lining the walls in thick sets. Five or six skeletons deep. They had been taken apart, and hung in groups of femurs and hips and fingers. Some tall and long, some short and delicate. The bones shuddered against the wind. They rattled, they cried in their beating against the walls. How many were there, she wondered, and why were they here?

A howl came again. It was different this time, a lower sound more certain of prey. It called into the night, and received an answer. A second howl, and then a third. A sound like paws, padding around the back of the Chantry, circling and watching. Mahariel drew her twin Dar'Misu and waited. The sounds rushed past the outside of the building, away from her and where she stood waiting, running and howling and growling as they made there way to fresh sport. They paid no mind to the scent of the woman who had readied herself for them, they moved into the night towards the center of the village. Sounds without shapes. Hunger without form.

They moved towards the red tower.


	3. Chapter 3

The howling had stopped just as Mahariel was within sight of tower's massive door. No dogs of any kind were about, and no signs of danger. If she had been more uncertain of herself, she would have worried that she was going slightly insane with stress, or perhaps that the discovery of the bones had triggered a strange flight of fancy within her. But by that time in her life, she had seen so many of the world's dark curiosities, that she was certain of what she had heard and what had led her back to the tower. She knew that as she had chased the clamour of the ghostly hounds through the narrow village streets, they had seemed to always be ahead of her and never within sight. Fierce barks had rang with triumph, and then all had gone quiet. Something sinister, perhaps of demon or dark magic, was afoot.

Mahariel burst through the heavy doors, and called out to her friends in loud and urgent tones.

"Nate!" She cried, "Anders!"

There came no reply.

She spared none of her precious time to look about the rooms of the red tower. The fine things within held no sway with her, and she ripped the doors open and stormed through, into the rooms behind. Her friends were not in the grand entrance, nor in the dining hall or kitchen. They were not in the parlour full of plush chairs and heavy drapes.

"Nate!" She raced up the stairs to the second floor.

"Anders!" The first bedroom was empty.

"Nate!" A lavish bath sat idle in a cold room.

"Anders!" Another parlour with no guests.

Up and up she went, winding through the rooms, leaving the doors open. Sparing no thought for the places she passed. Each unanswered call sped her heart, each empty room lessened her breath. Perhaps they had never entered the tower, she thought. Perhaps they were out in the town calling out her name, and searching through the houses with open doors. But she knew that they weren't.

Up and up.

"Nate!" Another bedroom.

"Anders!" A library with rows of books to the ceiling.

The further she went, the tighter the cold grip of fear upon her heart, until it was finally like a vice. Blood pounded in her ears as she raced onward. Each room that did not contain her friends was more irrelevant than the last, until they all blurred together into a haze of shape and colour that meant nothing to her but absence of those that she sought.

By the Creators, by the Maker, by the Ancestors, by the bloody Qun - let them be alright!

"Nate!"

Nothing.

"Anders!"

Nothing.

Finally, she found them in the highest room of the tower. It was a room completely unlike all the others she had passed through, for there was no ornamentation or finery. Tables lined the walls, and upon them sat glass flasks of strange liquids, vials and jugs of potions Mahariel had never seen before. The walls were bare, the floor was wooden. The light was dim. Stale air smelled of a heavy and sickly sweetness, bitter herbs and rust.

Two low tables were in the center of the room. Nathaniel lay upon one, and Anders on the other. Their eyes were closed and their hands were placed upon their chests. Anders held his staff. Nathaniel held his bow. Their chests rose and fell with breath. Between them stood the old man, who looked at Mahariel with fear and puzzlement.

"What have you done to them?" Mahariel asked of the old man. Her voice was steady, but her eyes warned of anger. She reached slowly for one of her blades and stepped towards him.

"You…" He sputtered, "You are dead. I have seen it in my dreams. The old god took you."

"What have you done to them?" She asked again, taking another step.

"How? How do you live when death has come so many times for you? He has marked you! You are dead!" The creaking, broken voice rose to hysterics. He shouted again and again that it all could not be.

Mahariel grabbed his collar, and threw his frail body against the wall. He slumped down along it with a pitiful groan, his eyes wide with terror. His lips trembled, but he spoke no more. A Dar'Misu was pointed at his heart, and the hand that held it had no more patience for him.

"_What have you done to them_?"

"They…sleep…" He finally said, looking towards Anders and Nathaniel.

"Why?" Mahariel demanded, "What sort of sleep?"

"The howling," The old man laughed, "They will stop the howling!"

"If you do not stop talking in riddles, I will kill you."

"No! No! You can't kill me! If my life ends then so shall theirs!" The old man quivered with fear, looking only at the blade that threatened him, "I have sent them to fight the dogs! The howling! You do not know what it is like! Such suffering! You have heard it tonight, one night, but that is no sacrifice. I have heard it… every night… every night…"

Mahariel waited for the old man to continue. She did not move the dagger.

"I did all that I was suppose to do, you must understand that. This tower, they were not worthy of it! My eldest brother was first. He died as if he took his own life. They found him hanging, hanging from the Chantry rafters. My sister was next. An accident. Her horse went mad, and threw her from the saddle. She hit her head against a rock, and the horse ran into the forests. No one doubted that this was so, and they said the family was cursed! Cursed! All of them whispered that I would be next, for I was small and weak to their eyes. But they never knew, because I did all that I was supposed to do. My mother sickened - a long illness, and I brought her a bowl of broth every night. And always, she thanked me and drank it. She _thanked me_, elf!

"My father, torn apart by grief they said, gave a cry of anguish and jumped from this very room. And I was all that there was left. This tower was mine! But the dogs! My father's dogs. Cruel dogs. Even the smallest one could snap my neck between its jaws. They looked at me, and they knew what I had done. They always knew. So one day, I tricked them into following me into the catacombs, and I trapped them within. They brayed and howled, and the days went past. They killed one another for the food to survive, and those that lived on grew into stronger and more terrible beasts. They filled the tower with their howls, and their calls gave away my nature to the villagers. The petty, foolish villagers who were not fit to set a single foot in my - _my! _- tower!

"But the howling, it does not stop. It cannot. It continued on, night after night, until there was but one throat to make the sound. And it was louder then than it had ever been. So vengeful. So vicious. So vicious…" The old man's eyes glazed over with memory, and his face tightened back into a lunatic smile.

"I told myself each night that it would be the last. That no dog could go on living down in the depths, with no company but the thrum of the earth and no meat but what was left on its bones. And still it howled! It howled and howled! And I could stand it no more! I opened the doors, went down into the catacombs… and nothing remained… just the bones! Maker help me! Just the bones!"

The old man sobbed, he tried to push his body further back against the wall. Anything to get away from the blade that nearly pierced through him. He was terrified of death.

"So what became of the dogs? What is it that howls?" Mahariel demanded.

"They're in the Fade! They call forth from the Fade itself! I killed their bodies, but their ghosts haunt this place. They will not rest until they have vengeance. They will not be silent until they are destroyed!"

"And what of my friends?"

"They too are in the Fade. I have given them a potion that tears the ghost from the sleeping body. I started with the villagers - in the night, I took a man from his home. I gave him the drink. The dogs must have caught him quickly, and torn his flesh in the Fade, for his body here ripped apart in his sleep and he bled and bled. The killing satisfied them, you see! Flesh of the other realm satiates them! The howling stopped for three nights!

"But the years have made them greedy, and it has taken many more lives to calm them, though they are calm no longer. I poured the potion into the well that fools drank from, and the howling stopped for so long. And I slept, and was refreshed. Every night, the dogs fed. Every morning, a new body was torn. But soon, there were no villagers left.

"The howling began again. A traveller finally came - a chevalier from the west who would know the fate of this village. I gave him a drink, I told him that it would protect him from the howls he had heard. He lasted longer than any of the others had before him. He _fought _them! They can be silenced forever! Defeated! When at last his body was torn and the life gone from him, I hired a band of mercenaries. Four of them, who together did not last for half as long as the chevalier.

"A templar was next. He wanted to know if I was a blood mage. He wanted to take me away from here, to another tower. A tower without the dogs, he said. As though that would make such a place as valuable as this, my home. He did not know what I had done for this place; he did not know what it was worth to me! I told him that I would leave with him in the morning, and gave him a glass of wine before bed. The glass was coated with my potion. It took him three days to die."

Mahariel finally lowered the dagger, and went to Nathaniel's side. Blood was trickling from a heavy scratch on his hand that had not been there when she entered the room. She looked at the old man with sharp, violent eyes.

"He bleeds, old man."

"Yes. I feared that he would not last very long. The other drank without question, but he would not. I had to strike him, and force the tonic down his throat. He struggled greatly. I fear that he has tired himself and injured his physical form too much to be of use. A shame."

"Where is the antidote to this potion?" Mahariel asked, watching a second scratch break Nathaniel's skin. She tore a strip of cloth from her scarf and began to wrap his wounds.

"There is no antidote. Why would I make one?" The old man shrugged.

"Do you have any more of it? So that I might join them in the Beyond."

"You would go, elf? You would sacrifice yourself to the hounds?"

"Please don't fool yourself into thinking this has anything to do with your entirely justified haunting," Mahariel said, "I see only three options, murderer. I can stand here and wait to see if my friends kill your hounds and return, which I'm not leaning towards given the condition of the archer's bow hand. I can drink this potion of yours and try to bring them back myself, which is my favourite choice at the moment. Or, I can kill you. You say that your death would ensure theirs, but I don't see how. And it seems like you're due an execution for your crimes."

"If you kill me, the hounds will go mad! They have wanted to kill me for so long, denying my soul to them would surely spur them into a wildness that would overwhelm your companions!"

"Then you'd better give me the damn potion." Mahariel said patiently, with an eye on Nathaniel's bleeding hand.

The old man shuffled over to his counter of concoctions, and selected a small jug with a burgundy coloured liquid inside. It was a thin, sticky potion that barely moved as the thin hand that carried it shook with age. The eyes of the old man sparkled with a dark, greedy glitter and he licked his lips as he handed Mahariel the bottle.

"Drink," He whispered, "Drink and save them from the Fade."

Mahariel took the bottle and uncorked it. She looked at the restful face of Anders - he really looked as though he were in a deep sleep and nothing more. What horrors was he facing, she wondered, and what could she do to help him?

"You drink first, old murderer."

"What?" The old man whispered hoarsely, "No… no…"

"Drink of your own will, like the mage. Or drink by force, like the archer. But make no mistake, I will see you face your hounds tonight."

"No! No!" He backed away from Mahariel, knocking into the table and sending vials smashing to the ground, "You can't make me drink that!"

"Why not? It only seems fair."

"It… is a poison! I gave the last of the true potion to your friends, and I have no more! If we drink from that bottle, we die!"

Mahariel looked at the old man who feared death and feared the hounds. He cowered, he flinched, he was always trembling. But he did not tremble when he spoke of poison. She smiled at him, and the firelight caught her eyes so that they seemed to glow with purpose.

"Nice try." She said, and grabbed the old man by the collar. He clamped his mouth shut and turned his head away from her, but he had no hope of matching her strength. Finally, she forced the neck of the bottle into his mouth and poured. He sputtered and spat, but could not stop from swallowing. Only a small amount was needed. His slumbering form slumped forward into her arms, and she slid him on the ground. The potion worked fast.

Mahariel took the handles of both blades in her hand and sat against the wall. She took a steadying breath, and then a gulp of the liquid in the jug.


	4. Chapter 4

It was like the red tower, but not. The colour was drained from it all, so that the world was as grey as a whisper. The winding stairs were among the few things of substance, stretching up inside walls that were no longer there. Points of light hovered where the braziers had hung in reality, shimmering with colour that could only be glimpsed from the corner of the eye. Cheated growls, snapping jaws, barks and yelps poured down from the very top of the stairs. Anders had used his magic to put up a barrier of sorts, like a piece of glass that glowed with a blue-green glyph. He had never cast the spell before, and doubted he would ever be able to outside of the surreal landscape of the Fade. It held the beasts at bay and gave them a chance to flee.

"This is why I'm a cat person!" He felt compelled to shout at Nathaniel, as they ran down the staircase that became thinner and thinner as they reached the bottom.

"Shut up and keep running!"

As they reached the floor of the main hall, a loud crack sounded from somewhere above them. There was a thud, and then another crack. The barrier was breaking, and soon the ghosts of the mabari would be upon them. Nathaniel pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, aiming for the edge of the turn that led down the stairs. When the dogs came, that was where they would have to come from. He slowly backed towards the ghostly doors that were even taller and wider in the Fade.

"If we get outside, we can shut them in. There's no way they can follow us. You open the doors, I'll cover you." Nathaniel ordered, keeping his aim upon the stairs. There was another loud crack, and the hounds began to bark excitedly.

"But… your hand…" Anders shook his head, "Shouldn't you go first? I can hold them off with another spell."

"Spells fail. Arrows do not," The archer steeled his gaze, "Go."

Anders hesitated. He knew that Nathaniel didn't realize that they were in the Fade, where even the truest shot could miss its mark. Logic no longer applied, and skill was just as much an illusion as any other part of the dream. The magic had worked, and it would work again if they needed it. But there was no time to argue.

He pulled at the mighty doors. They were so heavy it felt as if they had been rooted into the ground. As if the wood of the trees had never been planed, and still stood alive at his hands. Anders blinked a few times to shake the image from his head. Tricks of the Fade to keep him lost and disoriented until the dogs claimed him. He pulled again, and the doors slowly creaked open, with a sound like falling timber. He feared that the trees would kill him when they landed, but still he pulled, and the doors opened for him.

"Come on!" He called.

Nathaniel backed towards the doors swiftly, keeping an eye on the stairs. The barrier cracked a final time, and there was a distant flash as the glyph dissolved. The dogs tore down the stairs like thunder, their long-clawed paws scratching as they ran. Their barks like a wave of sound that crashed against the two Grey Wardens. Anders pulled Nathaniel through the doors behind them, and together they strained and slammed them shut again.

They turned, and looked upon the village.

It was a beautiful little place wrapped in the peaceful arms of late spring. The houses sat in golden sunlight, with white gleaming paint on their walls, and pink flowers that grew in in green grass beneath shimmering windows. Trees with young, vibrant leaves shaded the little backstreets and lined the main road. The smell of bakery bread drifted on the air, warm and fresh. The sky was filled with a white light that seemed to glow so brightly, it washed everything else away.

"But…" Nathaniel said slowly, "It's winter. This can't be right…"

"That's because we're in the Fade, you giant know-it-all bastard. As I have been trying to tell you since we got here." Anders replied with an exasperated sigh. He looked over his shoulder at the red tower, and felt drawn to it somehow. It was a glittering ruby that he could own, posses, and be master of. The painted lips of an eager barmaid, just waiting for his touch. Then he remembered how much he hated towers, and shook the notion from his mind.

"Yes. The Fade. Of course." Nathaniel muttered, but he didn't seem to believe it. He looked down at his hand, where the wound was still fresh. One of the monstrous dogs inside the tower had bounded over to him during the first wave of the fight. He hadn't been expecting it. The creature had leapt upon him, scratching at him, barking with wet, snapping jaws. It got him twice before he had kicked it back and shot an arrow through its eye.

Somehow, his hand had stopped bleeding.

Anders started walking, without any particular goal except to distance himself from the tower and the creatures they'd trapped there. Nathaniel stayed where he was, and did not follow.

"Nate! Get a move on!" Anders called back to him.

"I'm so tired," Nathaniel shook his head, "The back of my neck…"

He put his uninjured hand up to the place where the old man had struck him with a small marble statue. He was dizzy, and could not remember where he was.

"Oh, did you want to just lie down and have a quick sleep?" Anders scoffed, "We. Need. To. Move."

"Yes. You're right." Nathaniel nodded groggily and began to walk down the street, his bow hanging limply at his side. Was this Amaranthine? Had they made it back? He wondered where all the people were, how they had gotten through the blizzard and escaped the mad old fool at the red tower.

Behind him, the chorus of barking could be heard again. The dogs burst through the doors like they were made of vapour, and came running for their prey, overgrown claws clattering over the ground. They were unearthly creatures, with powerful muscles and jaws like steel traps. Their fur was faded from brown to grey, and their eyes were lit from within like lanterns. They were scarred. Some had lost large patches of fur, others had open wounds. One had an arrow in its eye. Two were thinner than the others, but this made them look all the more violent. All the more starved.

"Shit!" Anders declared at the sight of them, and cast. Lightning tumbled from the obscured sky. The dogs dodged the bolts, snarling with bared white teeth, and where the electricity hit the ground it shattered.

_Thwip_! _Thwip_!

The arrows sliced through the sky, and the dog they struck yelped and fell behind. Nathaniel's wounded hand shook as he held the bow. The scratches were deep, and his first shot had missed.

"Where the hell did these dogs come from?" He demanded, as he and Anders took off running towards the chantry spire.

"I hate the Fade." Anders grumbled as they fled.

When Mahariel awoke beyond the Veil, the old man was sitting on the floor by the window with his knees pulled up to his chest. He rocked back and forth, back and forth, with the wide eyes of one who could not accept his fate. He turned his head when Mahariel appeared, and put a thin finger up to his lips to silence her.

"Where are they?" She asked, pushing him away from the window and looking out onto the village below. The shadows of the hounds ran wildly towards two shapes that stood their ground. She watched the lightning spell, and she watched the arrows fly.

"Andraste…" The old man murmured, "Protect me, Andraste. Protect me."

"Praying will do you no good. All gods have forsaken you." Mahariel readied her blades, and began to run down the winding staircase. There was no more time for the old man and his madness.

"But I gave them to her!" His sobbing cry echoed behind her as she ran, "I gave her their bones! She is indebted to me! She _must_ protect me!"

The streets were longer than Mahariel remembered. They wound a labyrinth around the cheerful little houses and tried to pull her away from her task. But the barking led her on, and she followed the sound with all the care and skill she had used as a hunter for her clan. Behind her, the outline of the tower dissolved away so that only a cowering shadow could be seen on the highest floor. The strange coloured lights swirled at the base of the steps, as if they realized what quarry they now held.

"Nate! Anders!" She cried, for she felt as though she were searching the tower rooms for them again.

"Here, Lyna! Here!" Anders shouted back, and a burst of magic filled the sky.

They were fighting in front of the chantry, and the dogs pushed towards them from all directions. Magic swirled around the Wardens, protecting them from attacks. In the chantry's garden there stood a hundred figures, all gossamer pale and still. They watched the fight and seemed to wait for something, held in the place where their bones hung like wind chimes. Trapped forever in the Fade.

The ghosts turned to look at her, all at once tilting their heads to one side. She brought with her something that they wanted, and they could sense it in her presence. She knew of the quarry most precious to them, and greater in value than the ghosts of Anders and Nathaniel could ever be to them. The hounds ceased their attack, and perked their ears, and sniffed the air.

Mahariel looked at the figures, but could not see the shapes of their faces.

"_Hamin, setheneran'len_," She said as softly as a whisper, "He waits in his beloved tower."

As though of one mind and one body, the ghosts pointed. And the dogs ran towards the tower, no longer barking or snapping - they ran silently, and with swift and determined purpose. Down the streets they weaved, and through the tower doors. Up the countless steps to find him, and have their long awaited revenge.

Anders let his magic fall away, and they watched the shapes moving where the tower was supposed to be. They saw the dark hounds, cutting through the sky like knives, the colourful flames swirling higher and higher like flags that marked the shadowy figure of the old man. Then they watched as that shadow crumpled, beset upon by the other shapes, and they turned away as the pleading and agonized shriek filled their ears.

One of the ghosts stepped forward, finally able to move from the chantry garden. He was the white and faded figure of a man, wearing high pauldrons and heavy gauntlets; and he stepped towards the three Wardens in a ceremonious manner. On his chest was a thin and bright outline of the heraldry of Val Royeaux, and he took to one knee before Mahariel.

"Freedom." He said, taking her hand in his ghostly gloves and pressing his lips against the back of it.

With his kiss came a pure whiteness, that filled up all of the Fade and stripped it back and away into reality. Back into the thicket of trees by the side of the road, where the snow fell and an orb of magic fire flickered towards the night sky.

"Did… that just happen?" Anders asked cautiously, but his question was met with silence.

Nathaniel looked down at his hand, wrapped in a blood-soaked piece of Mahariel's scarf. He squeezed his fingers against his palm and felt the pain of the scratches.

"Yes." He nodded.

Mahariel sat in the flickering firelight and looked towards the hills. No lights shone there, and no tower stood in the darkness. There was nothing but the fields of snow and a sky that seemed too near to dawn for her liking. She felt a rush of sickness and guilt for the old man's death, but she knew it would pass. He had sealed his own fate, and if it had not been her then it would have been someone else. Or no one else, and perhaps that would have been worse.

After awhile, she stood up and walked over to where Anders sat in his own contemplative silence. She smiled at him warmly, and slapped him hard across the face.

"Ouch! What was that for?" He cried.

"You don't just _drink wine _like that, Anders. Honestly."

The blizzard slowed their progress, and when they arrived at Vigil's Keep they were greeted by two letters. The first was from Captain Garavel, who wrote that he and Sigrun had made it to Highever in good time and that the local healers were all very enthusiastic about her recovery. The second was from Sigrun herself, who wrote to say that she and Ser Pounce-a-lot quite liked Highever but were eager to get home.

One night, after searching through several stacks of old books, Nathaniel found what he was looking for. An old fairy tale about a man who lived in a red tower, where every night a strange howling could be heard. He dutifully read every other story in the book, and committed many details to memory.


End file.
